Whiteout
by kalina16
Summary: When a seemingly simple mission goes up in literal flames, Peter and Gamora must rely on each other to find their way home - before the planet kills them both.
1. Chapter 1

**What do you mean, of course I'm not starting another multi-chaptered fic smack in the middle of my other one... whoops :P This one won't be nearly as long I swear - probably three or four chapters long, tops. It's considerably more pointless as well. Also, while it's probably completely and ridiculously shippy, this fic can technically be read as strictly friendship, if you wish.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Most of the time, surprisingly enough, the Guardians of the Galaxy get along well. Gamora supposes it's because they all, to an extent, understand each other. They all know what it's like to lose something dear to them, what it's like to long for freedom – they know the ache of loneliness, the want for belonging, and the kind of pain that makes you lash out even when you don't mean it. They <em>get<em> each other, something none of them have had before – and with that, they understand the harsher of the insults they throw out, and find forgiveness quick and easy.

Most of the time.

There are, of course, those fights that escalate too quickly, the ones that end in blows and screams and, when he's not a perpetrator, Peter receiving an accidental punch in the face as he desperately tries to rein his team back together. But, much like the devastating rage of a tornado, these fights are short-lived, relationships quickly repaired once heads have cooled.

It's the quiet fights you want to watch out for – the low-voiced accusations, the ragged, pain-filled tones that give way to icy, frigid dismissals in the span of seconds. _Those_ fights are harder to repair, and considerably more awkward for the rest of the team to deal with, dancing around their silent teammates as they stomp around the _Milano_, cold, silent, and, quite frankly, terrifying. These fights take time to fizzle out – and, more often than not, meaningful, heart-to-heart apologies.

Which sucks, for the Guardians, because meaningful, heart-to-heart apologies aren't really their thing. That's when they go to Peter – because for whatever insane, utterly absurd reason that no one understands, Peter is rather good at defusing situations. The team has written it off as a result of years of talking his way out of deals gone wrong with the Ravagers, of course, but nevertheless – Peter is best at reconciling teammates.

Unless, of course, Peter is one of the quarrelling teammates in question.

And that sucks even more, because skilled as he is at reconciling others, Peter, when hurt, clamps up so tightly that drawing him out is nearly impossible. He'll come around eventually, of course, but it's notably awkward – the uncharacteristic silence that falls over the ship, ever-present music absent as Peter throws up every wall he has. Which, as Gamora's come to find, totals up to quite a lot of walls.

And that's why she hates fighting with Peter the most - it's painful, on both sides, and deprives her of her favorite person to talk to. Given the choice, she would take an argument with anyone _but_ him.

But Peter is not perfect, and stars know she isn't either – and Gamora does not get a choice.

So now, sitting in the cockpit of the _Milano_ as they overlook the small planet they've tailed their thief to, preparing to land, it is profoundly awkward.

And painful. She really, really hates not talking to Peter.

What's worse is that it's just them in the cockpit. The absence of the others weighs heavily, a stinging reminder of recent events.

Drax is not here to alleviate the silence with his conversation because he is currently recovering from a knife to the ribs. Rocket is not here to make scathing remarks on their mission failure (and respective silences, no doubt) because his arm is broken and he's concussed. And Groot is not there to simply comfort them with his presence because Groot is looking after the others, and, quite possibly, as pissed-off as they've ever seen him.

So it's Peter and Gamora alone in the cockpit, both sporting bruises and scrapes but the best off of their team. Peter and Gamora and their argument heavy in the air as they pilot their way onto the snowy planet, eyes roving the swirling white for the slightest glimpse of a town to land in. She sits perfectly still as she monitors the ship's sensors, at a loss.

Peter lets out a breathy exhale, hazel eyes darkened in the dimming light as they descend onto the planet. His brow is creased with a slight frown of concentration as he lands the _Milano –_ but other than that, he is completely silent.

The ship touches down just outside the city with the slightest of jolts, the wind howling against the _Milano's_ walls as they both relax minutely. Peter leans back in his seat, stretching slightly. He turns to her.

"Weather's bad, so we'll need to suit up," he says quietly. "And the others-"

"I'll let them know we're taking care of things," she says, rising stiffly. Peter nods at her as she slips down the ladder, making her way to where Rocket and Drax are laid up.

Groot is exactly where they left him, keeping careful watch over the two injured Guardians. Gamora spares him a slight, tentative smile as she draws near, her friend's ever-calm demeanor relaxing her slightly. Glancing behind him she can see Drax reading in his bunk, skin still far too pale but looking infinitely better than he last did. Rocket is still unconscious – but Groot seems relatively at ease so she figures his condition has not worsened. She clears her throat slightly, alerting Drax to her presence.

"We've reached the planet," she says, resting her hand on the doorway. "Peter and I are going to take care of things with our Skrull mercenary."

"Alone?" Drax frowns, wincing as he attempts to raise himself. "One of us should accompany you-"

"No," Gamora says, a bit frantically as she pushes him back into the bunk. "It's alright – we can handle this. You need to stay here, with Rocket and Groot – and _heal_," she says pointedly. Drax looks unhappy.

"I do not like this," he says. "Sending the two of you alone seems a great risk, given what happened last time."

"This isn't last time," she says tightly. "We won't mess things up so quickly. In and out. We'll be fine."

"Will you?" Drax says, looking at her intently.

"I told you, we can handle ourselves-"

"That is not what I meant," he says, face knowing. Gamora's grip on the door tightens.

"It's nothing," she says quietly. "We'll sort it out soon enough."

Drax looks as if he's going to say something else, but Peter's footsteps halt the conversation.

"We good?" he asks, snow jacket thrown over his arm. He glances at Drax, his face darkening slightly as his eyes flit over the bandages. "You okay?"

"I am fine," Drax says, just as Gamora gives a clipped "Yes." Peter nods, then turns to Groot.

"You'll take care of them, right, bud?"

Groot nods, face determined.

"Alright," Peter says, turning to Gamora. "Let's go."

Nodding goodbye to the others, Gamora follows him out, grabbing her own snow jacket as they go.

"Do not underestimate him!" Drax's concerned warning follows them out of the ship, lost immediately into the howling winds.

* * *

><p>It was everyone's fault, really. The haphazard plan Peter scraped together last-minute <em>might<em> have worked – had anyone put enough faith in it to carry it out.

Heck, scratch faith in the plan – they didn't even have faith in each other.

The mission had gone to hell in a matter of seconds. The data chip they were supposed to be retrieving wasn't where it was supposed to be. Instead, it was clasped in the protective hands of a Skrull mercenary just sliding into his ship.

That, they could have handled. The dozens of armed Skrull forcing their backs against the wall? Less so.

So Peter threw out a plan that more or less consisted of wreaking their usual havoc upon the mercenaries – except he kept insisting that they stay together. Like, shoulder to shoulder, right smack against each other together. No one was a big fan of that particular plan.

Especially Gamora, because she'd _told_ Peter they needed to check the air docks first, _told_ him they needed to get there earlier, to trust her. But he had shaken her off, insisting that they couldn't risk deviating from mission parameters any more than they already had.

It irked Gamora a good deal when people didn't listen to her. It irked her even more when it was Peter, who she _trusted_ to always listen to her.

So she didn't listen to him – eye for an eye, and all. And, of course, everyone else followed suit, splitting away and attacking eagerly.

It took them a minute to realize why Peter had let out a particularly agonized groan when they disobeyed his orders – given a minute the Skrulls had them surrounded with exact replicas of themselves.

Shape-shifters, in Gamora's opinion, were really an unfair species.

It went downhill from there. Between the expected cries of "_No, _I'm_ the real insert-Guardian-name-here_!" and the reluctant waving of weapons, things descended into utter chaos. And to make things even more humiliating – no one had any idea who their real teammates were. At all.

Looking back, Gamora can think of several hundred things that should have tipped her off – Drax's intonations, the jerking movements Rocket uses when cocking his gun, Groot's tendency to go on the defensive first rather than the offensive, Peter's quickened, Terran breathing and his dance-like maneuvers – all things she could easily recognize, things they should have all recognized.

And maybe they did – maybe the problem wasn't a recognition failure. Perhaps the problem lay in what seemed to be the heaviest issue lurking in all their dark, murky pasts – trust.

Whether or not they had even the slightest idea which of their teammates were the real ones, the very idea that they might be an imposter was enough to put them all on the offensive. So instead of listening to Peter (who might not even have been Peter) and his desperate yell of "_Don't attack!_" they did exactly that – attacked their doppelgangers.

It ended badly. Gamora feels no need to go into further detail.

It was only after they had finished weeding out the imposters, after the three uninjured Guardians rushed Drax and Rocket to the _Milano_ for medical aid, the she and Peter finally lost the cool they'd barely been clinging to.

They had failed – humiliatingly so. And frustrated at the situation, worried for their friends, stressed to the breaking point, they needed someone to take it out on. So words like _reckless_ and _thoughtless_ and _blind_ were thrown out, punctuated by a unanimous statement : _You don't _trust_ me_.

They'd yelled at each other until Groot had roared at them, stressed to breaking point himself with Rocket and Drax injured.

They shut up after that. It did nothing to dissipate the icy, bitter air between them.

They had managed several civil words, agreeing to chase the Skrull mercenary down to where he'd fled and retrieve the data chip. Other than that, the ride had been in silence.

* * *

><p>One of the better things about the whole hero thing is that ordinary people are actually willing to help you. They smile warmly at you and offer the best information they can, as opposed to, say, screaming in fear and running for the authorities.<p>

The people in this city are particularly enthusiastic. Gamora will wager it has something to do with the lack of traffic in the freezing, snowy town – the sight of new faces alone is probably enough to excite the people. Their help is reliable, though, and appreciated, Peter tells them, as they make their way towards the abandoned mining operation several miles away from the town, where a suspicious-looking Skrull was rumored to have headed to not long ago.

The speeder they've rented whirs as they speed through the howling winds, heading further and further into the endless expanse of white. Peter's hands clench on the controls as he jerks the speeder back on track for what must have been the tenth time – piloting in this weather is far from easy. Gamora takes a moment to tighten her jacket, adjusting the fur-lined hood over her neatly braided hair. The jacket is warm but far from the best defense against the bitterly cold weather – besides, she's hoping they won't be out in it for long. Get the data chip and go. In and out.

"Pretty sure that's our place," Peter says, his voice jarring after the hour-long ride of silence. The dark buildings and mining scaffolding loom against the swirling snow, dark and abandoned and empty-looking.

"I see no trace of anyone," she says, scanning the area as Peter brings the speeder to a halt.

"There," Peter says, pointing to one of the boarded-up mine entrances. It's near-unnoticeable, but there are tell-tale signs that someone's broken in and hastily boarded up the door again.

That, and it's the only opening not entirely buried in snow.

"Sloppy," she remarks, tightening her jacket as they step out of the speeder. The bitter wind bites at her face, tiny snowflakes falling lazily around them. Peter shivers.

"Let's get this over with," he mutters, heading towards the entrance. "The sooner we get out of here the better." Gamora agrees. She can't decide which one will drive her mad first – the freezing weather or the cold, uncomfortable air between them.

Peter kicks through the door with a splintering crack, peering into the darkness. Gamora wrinkles her nose as the sulfuric, musty smell of the mine greets them and they step gingerly in, Peter pausing a minute to pull out his spherical light.

"Makes you wonder if this guy's entirely with it," Peter mutters as they head further into the darkness of the mine, the air gloomy and oppressive. "Why would he run here?"

"It's likely serving as a set meeting place for whoever he's selling our chip to," Gamora says tonelessly. "Far from public eye and more likely to be undisturbed."

"Then we'd better get our chip back and get outta here," Peter says, glancing at the walls warily as his light casts disfigured shadows. "I'm not looking forward to dealing with any more mercs this week."

Gamora gives nothing more than a low sound of agreement, her own eyes tilted down as she picks her way carefully over the scaffolding of the mine, looking out for the abandoned shafts lying nearby, the dark holes pitch black where they stretch miles under the earth.

Peter lets out a weary sigh from behind her, shifting awkwardly.

"Gamora," he says hesitantly. "About – about what happened…"

Gamora stiffens, pulse quickening as she realizes where this conversation is heading.

"I – I just –"

"Wait," she cuts him off, squashing her own emotions and the spark of guilt she feels at his expression - but this conversation is the last thing she needs now. "I think he's ahead."

And thankfully her instincts, as always, never fail her, because before Peter can manage out a reply there's a bright flash of blaster fire that misses them by inches, dark figure sprinting away.

"Hey!" Peter yells, following close behind her as they sprint after the mercenary, panting breaths and voices echoing loudly in the mine shaft.

The chase is over in an instant as the Skrull screeches to an abrupt halt in front of them, hands wind-milling as he stops inches from the sheer drop before him. Gamora surges forward as he whirls around, eyes wide in panic as he fumbles with something in his jacket.

"Don't come any closer!" the Skrull yelps, a spherical device gripped tightly in his hands. She freezes, hearing Peter's sharp intake of breath as they realize what he's holding – a bomb. Judging by the design, not one of great firepower, but dangerous all the same. And, more importantly, the type of bomb that's set to go off seconds after it leaves his hand.

"One step closer and I'll kill us all," he says, a manic, shaky grin on his face. Out of the corner of her eye Gamora can see Peter go rigid, eyes fixed on the bomb. She stops herself, leg twitching anxiously as she glares at the mercenary – the bomb would be a whole less concerning if it weren't for the sulfuric smell permeating through the mine shaft.

"Hey hey hey, no need for that," Peter says, the confident, convincing mask of Star-lord sliding easily onto his face. "We're not gonna hurt you – we just want to talk business." He gives Gamora a pointed look and she huffs angrily, fingers drifting away from her knife.

The Skrull is glaring at Peter in suspicion, shaking fingers still tight on the bomb.

"You want money, right?" Peter says, voice calm and soothing, as if he's talking to a frightened animal. "We can give you that – we just need that data chip."

"Sure," the Skrull says, eyes wild. "And then you blow my brains out the second you've got it in your hand."

"We aren't interested in killing anyone, much less you," Peter says. "We just want our data chip. So if you want to disarm that bomb, we can talk it out and, y'know, all _live_?"

The Skrull frowns, but he looks unsure, eyes darting between the two of them wildly. Peter edges forward, raising his hands in an unthreatening gesture.

"No one's gonna be killing anyone, I swear," Peter says, staring firmly at the Skrull. "Just disarm the bomb we can all get out of here."

Gamora thinks Peter's got him – the Skrull's eyes have widened, his hand relaxing on the bomb, and she thinks, for a second, that they may actually get out of this without much trouble.

But that is before a crack resounds from above them, a portion of the rotted ceiling breaking free as their voices resound throughout the mine.

The Skrull reacts instantaneously, yanking out his gun with his free hand and aiming it at Peter. Gamora is there in an instant, snapping his wrist and kicking his feet out from beneath him and, more importantly, getting Peter out of the gun's sights.

It's sloppy, but for a second, lost in the adrenaline, she forgets about the bomb.

The mercenary loses his grip on the bomb as he falls, the blinking orb flying through the air in almost slow-motion.

"Go, go, GO!" Peter yells as he rushes towards her, eyes wide in terror. Before she can react, the bomb explodes.

A rush of heat sears over them as the explosion rocks the ceiling, destroying the supports in a gulf of flame that quickly catches the sulfur lining the rest of the ceiling with a another deafening explosion.

The fragile scaffolding explodes in a splintering barrage of wood as the masonry collapses on top of them, stones and flaming debris raining down.

"_Move!_" Peter's desperate cry echoes in her ears as she feels him yank her away from the screaming mercenary, throwing them both towards the exit as the mine collapses around them. She pulls herself out of the daze, sprinting towards the exit, harsh breaths matching Peter's panicked gasps. She can just see the bright strip of daylight ahead, they are mere yards from the door-

Peter cries out as a heavy beam smashes down in front of them, sending them sprawling to the floor. Gamora gasps as she struggles to push herself back up, dust and rubble blinding her as it rains around her. Coughing, she struggles to her feet, looking around desperately.

"Peter!" she yells, her voice a desperate cry among the loud crumbling of the building. "_Peter-_"

A blinding pain explodes in the back of her head, her vision blinking out as she collapses onto the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

**So school has been unfairly busy lately (presentations and tests and all the lovely midterm work), so I'll probably be a bit slow on updating for a majority of this month - sorry! I will try to get things up as soon as possible. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Consciousness returns to Gamora in blinding, painful bursts. Tears spring up in her eyes as she blinks them open, dirt and dust speckling her vision. With a grunt she pushes herself up – only to fall back she a moan as her head throbs in agony.<p>

Right – she's taken a chunk of ceiling to the head. Opting to remain on the floor for now, she looks up, eyes slowly adjusting to the dim, filtering light coming through the cracks in the collapsed ceiling. The structure seems to be sound enough for now, only the slightest rubble falling. But it won't last for long – there are already splintering cracks running through the beam above her, the crippling weight of the stone threatening to snap the support in two.

Rising more slowly this time, she runs a cursory examination of the rest of her. Apart from the splitting pain in her head, she seems to more or less unharmed. A shiver racks her as the cold wind from outside brushes past her.

It's a miracle, she thinks, that the ceiling didn't crush them both-

_Peter._

She jerks up, ignoring the stab of pain in her head as fear grips her heart.

"Peter," she croaks, eyes scanning the dim-lit wreckage. "Peter!"

A low groan echoes from the rubble behind her, flooding her with relief as she recognizes it as Peter's.

"Peter!" she calls, voice firmer. "Are you alright?"

" 'm alive," Peter moans as Gamora gingerly climbs over the rubble towards his voice. "You?"

"I'm- _mph_ –fine," she grits out, head pulsing in agony as she stumbles over a chunk of ceiling. "Anytime you want to get up and, you know, get out of here before the rest of the ceiling collapses and kills us would be nice."

"About that," Peter says as Gamora begins moving rubble. "I don't think – I can't really move."

"Peter, I'm serious we need to go-" she's shifting a piece of collapsed masonry when Peter's cry of pain cuts her off. "Peter?" she asks, concern flooding her as she freezes her attempts to move the rubble.

"Stop, please," Peter gasps out, voice tight. "Don't move that again, oh, _hell_-"

"You _are_ hurt," Gamora hisses, ignoring her pain as she climbs carefully over the masonry. "You liar-"

She stops abruptly. Peter is slumped up against the masonry, eyes closed tightly and face bloodless. The upper half of his body appears to be fine, if coated in dirt and rubble.

It's the pole jutting out from the rubble she was pushing that is stuck through his upper leg that stops her.

"Oh stars," she whispers.

Peter's eyes are wide, pupils huge as he stares at the pole impaled in his leg.

"Uh-huh," he says faintly. "Oh. Oh god. Oh shit shit shit shit shit-"

"Calm down!" Gamora snaps, attempting to quell her own rising fear as she crouches next to him. "Just – just breathe, okay?"

Peter's breaths are short and panicked but he nods, closing his eyes as he fists a hand in his hair, grounding himself.

There's an ominous groaning sound from the crumbled remnants of the ceiling, burning rubble and dust falling around them as the mining shaft they're in shudders.

"Shit," Gamora hisses, panic mounting again. "Peter – Peter we need to get out of here-"

"Right," he breathes. "Right – lemme just-" his fingers flutter against the pole, face paling rapidly.

"I've got this," she says firmly as she gently pushes his fingers back, wrapping her own around the pole. "Just brace yourself. This will-" she swallows. "This is going to hurt."

"Do it," Peter hisses. "Just do it-"

She yanks.

Peter's eyes go wide, back arching as a strangled shriek escapes his lips, fingers clenching desperately at the rubble-strewn ground. The pole exits his leg with a hideous squelch, blood bubbling up around the gaping wound and soaking into his pant leg.

Swearing violently she throws the pole away, ripping a length of fabric off her jacket and pressing it firmly against his leg, wincing at the small whimper of pain that escapes him as she does.

"Stars, Peter, I'm sorry – I'm so sorry, I've got you, it's okay-" her words are useless, merely weightless condolences as she wraps his leg the best she can, but Peter manages a faint smile for her through his expression of pain.

"Thanks," he breathes out as she finishes tying off the makeshift bandage, forcing himself up even as his face whitens even further in pain. "_God._ Stick that at the top of the list of things I'm never, ever doing again."

"Stupid thing to do in the first place," she says, not unkindly, as she slings his arm around her shoulder, wrapping a hand around his waist. "Come on – we need to get out of here."

As if to punctuate her words, another shuddering groan wracks the room, dust clouding their vision as the acrid smell of smoke grows stronger. Peter nods, tightening his grip on her shoulder. Reaching her free hand up she grasps his hand, squeezing briefly.

She pushes them both up, Peter putting his weight entirely on his good leg as he bites his lip. She winces internally, knowing that rushing him like this is by no means the safest option – but the smell of smoke and burning is getting stronger, and unless they want to die in this mine, they need to get out of here _now._

They limp towards the exit, Peter obviously trying not to lean on her but failing completely. They make it about five steps when they hear footsteps from behind them.

Gamora has Peter's gun off his belt and in her hand in a heartbeat, whirling around and taking aim-

Only to freeze dead as the gun points directly in Peter's wide-eyed face.

"What the _hell_?!" the Peter next to her sputters. Gamora's blood runs cold. She's forgotten – the mercenary is a Skrull, of course he can turn into Peter - all she has to do is shoot the imposter and they can be on their way.

"Gamora," the other Peter says nervously, hazel eyes wide as blood drips slowly down his brow. "Gamora, it's me- get _away_ from him."

But which one is the imposter?

With a jolt of fear as she realizes she may very well have a Skrull draped around her shoulder, Gamora shoves the Peter next to her away, springing back and desperately trying to ignore his cry of pain as he lands hard on his injured leg.

"Gamora," he gasps out from the floor, face white. "No- don't listen to him, you know it's me-"

_Does she?_ She thinks in panic as she glances rapidly between the two, fingers tightening on the gun as it wavers between them. They both look exactly like Peter, right down to the darkened hazel shade of his eyes and the lazy curling of his hair.

The room shudders again, rubble raining down and clouding the air. They don't have time for this.

She glances at them both.

"Loose feet," she says.

"What?" the standing Peter says with a frown.

"It's _Footloose_," the Peter on the ground says, exasperation automatic. "Wait-"

She smiles at the standing Peter.

Then she shoots him in the head.

"Holy - _shit_!" Peter – the real Peter – gapes at her from the floor. "That – that was violent," he says as he stares at his own corpse on the floor, his features slowly giving way to the green skin of the Skrull race. Gamora holsters the gun, stopping to snatch the data chip out of the dead Skrull's bag before running over to Peter.

"Glad you knew which one was me," he says, a bit faintly, as she helps him up, pulling them both into the awkward limp once again as they head towards the exit.

"Of course I did. Who else knows that reply?" she says, confident. "Though I won't lie," she mutters as they begin to stumble forwards. "I was hoping you would be the less injured of the two."

"Yeah, well," Peter gasps out in half-laughter. "You and me both."

"Well at least-"

The rest of Gamora's sentence is cut off as a loud groaning echoes through the mine, the remaining upper structure clearly having reached its limit.

"Run!" Gamora yells, dragging Peter towards the exit as she breaks into a sprint. Peter swears but pushes himself into a sprint besides her, biting his lip so hard that the skin breaks.

Rubble falls around them and Gamora is gripped by a horrible sense of déjà-vu as they find themselves, once again, sprinting towards the exit as the mine collapses. Only this time they break into the blinding, frigid daylight just as the exit behind them is crushed by the collapsing ceiling, a thick, acrid cloud of smoke enveloping them as they dive forwards.

Gamora shoves Peter down into the snow, throwing herself on top of him as the scaffolding collapses above them, the heavy cranes thudding into the snow feet from where they lay.

They lay there for a minute, crumpled atop each other and breathing harshly.

As the adrenaline fades, the cold air begins to seep into them, the frozen winds biting harshly into them where they lay. Gamora feels Peter shiver against her, all too aware of her own cooling skin.

"Mmph," she moans as she pushes herself up. "Peter – are you alright?"

"Ugh," he groans, sitting up next to her. "I'm - _agh_ – good," he says, wincing as his leg shifts. "Y'know, mostly," he finishes as he stares at the blood-soaked strips of Gamora's jacket tied around his leg.

"So decidedly not alright," she mutters as she leans over, inspecting his leg. Her bandages have held, thankfully – she had feared she'd injured him worse when she'd thrown him to the ground.

"I'm sorry," she says, voice low as she wraps another strip of her jacket around his leg. "For back there."

"Huh?" Peter says, head tilted back as he stares at the sky, pointedly avoiding looking at his leg. "Oh – with the Skrull – no, it's fine," he says, the corners of his mouth tugging into a slight grin. "You got the right me, right?"

"Yes," she says, knotting the bandage. Peter lets out a hiss of pain as she pulls it tight. "Sorry – but I should have known it was you from the start."

"Nah," he says, breathing deeply as she finishes off the bandage. "I'd – _ow, Gam, geez_ – I'd probably've reacted the same."

"Still," she says. "We need a better system for that." Peter nods as she leans back from her handiwork.

The makeshift bandages will serve for now, but the blood is soaking through at an alarming rate – which should be expected, considering there's a hole in his leg. He needs medical aid, sooner rather than later.

"Here," she says, helping him up once again. "We need to get out of here."

"Yeah, okay, sounds good," Peter says, gingerly testing his leg. He looks up and frowns. "Wait. Where's the speeder?"

"What?" Gamora looks up as well, her heart plummeting. The speeder is nowhere in sight – but the burning remains of the scaffolding are.

"You're joking," Peter says, eyes wide. "This is – this is a _joke_."

"No," Gamora moans, staring at the wreckage their speeder is crushed beneath in despair. "No, no, _no_."

"Well, shit."

Gamora thinks that sums up the situation fairly well.

"Alright," Gamora says after she's let the blow sink in, running a hand through her hair. "Alright – our speeder's done for."

Peter swears, looking equally disheartened. Gamora moans, sinking to sit in the snow, Peter collapsing next to her.

"We'll have to walk it then, I guess," Peter finally says. Gamora looks at him with incredulity.

"We're an hour out by _speeder_," she says pessimistically. "Walking, in this weather? That's a day. Give or take." She doesn't add that with Peter's leg it will likely be a good deal of giving.

"So what are we supposed to do then?" Peter says, frustrated. "Sit here and freeze to death?"

"No," Gamora grits out. "We wait here. If we're gone long enough the others will notice, and they'll find us. We just need to stay in one place, preferably where there's some semblance of shelter."

"Wait for them to find us in this weather?" Peter says, gesturing to the increasing snowfall. "We don't have that time – and besides, that merc was waiting for someone," Peter says. "And they're still coming. I don't wanna be here when they come around."

"You don't – " she grits her teeth in frustration. "Peter, this is _miles_ through heavy snow and freezing temperatures. You won't-" _You won't make it. You won't survive. _

She swallows. She could do it, maybe. But she has body mods. The cold won't affect her as quickly as it will him – point in case, the incident outside of Knowhere. The odds are already stacked against Peter, his Terran biology leaving him susceptible to the cold, and with his leg-

Their chances are not optimal, at the best.

"Gamora," Peter is staring at her, eyes burning in determination. "I can do this. I won't die on you. Trust me."

_Trust me_. Peter's warnings as they attack the Skrulls, his pained expression as she shoves him to the ground in the mine.

"Okay," she whispers.

* * *

><p>Walking miles through deep, sinking snows is hard enough. Walking that distance while half-supporting a stubborn idiot with an injured leg is considerably harder.<p>

Not to mention that there's a continuous throbbing in her head that's made itself known now that her adrenaline from earlier has faded. Coupled with the slight nausea she feels as they shove their way through the snow, she has the sinking suspicion that she has a concussion.

A mild one, of course. Thank the stars for body mods.

Peter is doing surprisingly well, leg aside. He wavers between silent, tight-lipped stumbling and prattling on about practically everything that comes to mind. She's guessing that's his way of coping with pain.

Not that she minds, of course – Peter's ramblings are more than welcome, compared to the icy silence that lay between them earlier. She's not saying much herself, focusing more on keeping them on track towards the general direction of the city, but that awkward, post-argument atmosphere has been all but evaporated – the issue is still there, of course, and neither of them is acknowledging it, but it's not nearly as awkward as it was.

And that is the one and only bright side to this disaster. Because dissolving argument aside, they're still traipsing through snow in the middle of _nowhere_, their communicators can't find a signal worth a damn, there's a gaping _hole_ in Peter's leg, and it's cold. Incredibly, unbelievably cold.

When they get out of this (_if_ they get out of this, a treacherous voice in her mind whispers), the team is only allowed to go to planets with a hot, sunny climate for at least a month. At least. Gamora tells Peter so.

"Seconded," he says, vainly reaching for his normal, confident tone as he shivers, stumbling besides her. "I'll make it an order."

"I'm holding you to that," she says, tightening her grip around him a he unconsciously leans more heavily on her. Despite the constant shivers that rack his body, his skin is uncomfortably hot. This is not a very reassuring fact for Gamora to deal with right now.

"No snowy planets," Peter agrees. "Just tropical planets with beaches and deserts and sun."

"And hot drinks," Gamora adds, thinking longingly of her hot tea back on the _Milano_. The pain in her head spikes again, causing her to stumble – which, in turn, brings Peter down, and ends with them both lying in the snow.

"Sorry – I'm sorry," she bursts out as she struggles to her feet – only to sink back to her knees as her head pounds viciously. She buries her face in her hands, attempting to quell the rising nausea.

"It's fine, it's fine – shit, Gamora, are you okay?" Peter asks frantically, hands brushing tentatively at her back.

"I'm fine," she gasps out, swallowing her nausea. "Just – head," she mutters, gesturing towards her traitorous, throbbing head.

"Aw, no," he mutters, fingers gently brushing the back of her skull. "Gamora, you got _nailed_ – why didn't you say anything?" He glares at her through his obvious concern.

"There's nothing we can do," she bites out as the pain recedes. "It's of no concern."

"No concern my ass," Peter mutters, sounding unhappy. "You should have said something. I don't – I can't really do anything for it, but your head is probably exploding right now."

"It feels to be in one piece to me," Gamora says with a ghost of a smirk as she begins to stand back up. "Come on. I'm fine, and we need to move."

"Alright," Peter says, rising with a groan. "But only if – _agh_ – only if you promise to tell me if it gets worse," he says, wincing as his leg stretches.

"Speak for yourself," Gamora mutters darkly. "We've got a long way ahead of us to walk."

"Don't remind me," Peter moans, staring disconsolately at the white expanse that surrounds them from all sides, the setting sun reflecting off the snow with a blinding intensity. "Is our comm still busted?"

"Unfortunately," Gamora says, checking the battered device for the umpteenth time. As each time before, flicking it on brings only the sound of static.

"Damn," Peter mutters. "I think I may've busted it when the ceiling came down."

"It doesn't matter," Gamora says. "We'll live without it."

"Yeah, duh," Peter says. "But I'd kill to see the others right now. And my ship."

"Yeah," Gamora echoes. "Me too."

* * *

><p>Gamora nearly cries when they lose their daylight. She's almost ninety percent sure she hears Peter sniffling.<p>

The dark is all-enveloping, the only light the pale glimmer of the stars reflected on the snow. It's rather beautiful, to be honest – except Gamora cannot appreciate it because she's trying very hard not to _die_.

The temperature has made an abrupt drop, leaving them both numb and shivering as they trudge through the snow, breaths coming in puffs of silvery air before them. They both have their jackets on, of course, but Gamora has a sinking feeling they weren't made to last in weather this cold. So really, their relentless hike is a good thing – the more they keep moving, the longer they will have before they succumb to the cold.

On the other hand, there are their injuries to contend with. While the pain in her head has faded into a mild, numb throbbing, Peter appears to be less fortunate – his face is tight with pain as he continuously jostles his injured leg with his steps. And though it pains her, there's nothing she can do for him – they cannot afford to rest now. They won't get up again.

"Y'know," Peter says. "This really sucks."

"You've said that," Gamora says in exasperation.

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't mean it's not _true_."

"I suppose," Gamora breathes. They walk on in silence for a minute before Gamora stumbles, her leg sinking deep into a snow drift.

"This sucks far too much to be fair," she hisses as she yanks it out. Peter snorts.

"Yup," he says through a yawn. "Suckiest of the suck."

"That makes so much sense-" she freezes.

"Gam?" Peter says worriedly.

"Shh," she hisses. "I'm listening."

Peter continues to stare at her worriedly as she listens intently, eyes closed.

_There_.

"Oh," she whispers. "No. Shit – Peter, can you run?"

"Can I – what?" Peter stares at her, eyes wide. "Gam, what's going on?"

"Something's following us," she says, heart hammering in fear. "I don't think –" she frowns, squinting into the darkness. "There's more than one."

"Shit," Peter mutters, hand on his gun. "We're about to get eaten by wolves, aren't we?"

"Wolves?" she says with a frown as she continues to scan the darkness.

"Terran thing," Peter says. "It happens in all the movies and books and stuff – hikers in the snow get eaten by wolves."

"I don't know about these 'wolves' " Gamora says. "But I believe that you have the eating part right."

She doesn't want to be right, but judging the feral, teeth-bared appearance of the large, fur-covered beasts just appearing over the snow drift behind them, she is.

"Just like fricking wolves," Peter says faintly.

"Run," Gamora says, backing up as the beasts begin running towards them. "Run!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Final chapter at last! I ended up going out of town to the mountains for the better part of the week and lost my motivation and most of my wifi (I also felt kinda bad for what I was doing to Peter and Gamora in my story because freezing temperatures get really old very, very fast). But at any rate I finally finished this and I've been getting better a balancing my schoolwork, so hopefully I'll be able to update my other stories soon as well!**

**(Also, thank you so much to everyone who reviewed/followed/favorite this story – you guys are the best!)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Speed, normally, is not much of an issue for Gamora. Attempting to gather speed when your feet keep sinking through the snow is an entirely different story. She voices her frustration with a violent swear as she turns and runs.<p>

Swearing with equal violence, Peter breaks into a sprint next to her, pushing his leg for the second time that day. Her heart quickens as she hears the wolf-like creatures in pursuit behind them, snarling lowly.

She weighs her options. The beasts are obviously built for this terrain – they will have no trouble catching them in the snowy land. Flight is out of the question – they're going to have to fight. It'll be risky, especially with Peter somewhat incapacitated, but they have to try.

Gamora racks her brain, pulling on all the basic survival information she's ever learned and frantically trying to remember anything about attackers like this. Animalistic, debatably non-sentient – the first thing that pops into her head is obvious.

"Fire," she gasps as they sprint down another snowdrift, legs burning as they sink into the snow. "We need fire. A lot of it."

"Right," Peter gasps, already rummaging through his knapsack. "Right – I think – I've got flash bombs, and – yes!" He pulls out both the flash bombs and a bulky, gun-like weapon.

"Here," he says, thrusting the two flash bombs into her hand. "Just lemme-" Intent on his fumbling with the weapon, Peter stumbles, Gamora grabbing him seconds before he face-plants into the snow. Pulling him down, she slides them both behind a snow drift.

"You have a plan?" she asks quickly, gauging the creatures' distance.

"Sort of," he says, eyes on the weapon as he begins to pull it apart. "I just need a second-"

"I can buy you more than that," she says, rising. Peter gives her a wide-eyed look.

"No – Gamora-"

"Trust me," she says, fingers drifting over the trigger of the first flash bomb. "And whatever plan you have – make it fast?"

Peter nods, hands tightening on the gun.

"Be careful!" he calls as she vaults over the snow drift, breaking into a sprint.

"Unnecessary warning," she mutters as she charges the creatures head-on, feet light on the gleaming snow. Looking at them clearly, she can count roughly ten of them, all large with distinctively bared sharp teeth. Veering to the side, she feels a slight surge of relief as they follow her instead of continuing to where Peter is hidden – relief that quickly fades as the creatures draw nearer, swift over the snow.

She waits until they are mere yards from her before she thumbs the trigger on the flash bomb, grinning savagely as she whirls around, hurling the bomb into the air as she closes her eyes, flinging an arm over her face.

The high-pitched hiss of the flash-bomb echoes across the snow, and she grins again at the wounded yelping that fills the air, the sound of the creatures hitting the snow all-to clear. Jumping back up, she blinks rapidly, breaking into a sprint as she puts as much space as possible between herself and the whimpering beasts, the creatures ducking their heads into the snow in a vain attempt to clear their blinded eyes. She picks up her pace, curving as she takes care not to veer too far away from Peter – she's not sure how much time she's bought herself with the flash bomb, but it's clearly not going to be enough to drive off the beasts completely. Within minutes the whines give way to furious howls, the sounds of pursuit drawing near once again.

She'd really hoped that would have taken care of them – the dark of the night after a flash that bright ought to have left them blinded for a while, at least.

Except – damn. She's forgotten that vision probably isn't even their sense of choice for hunting – why bother when they can simply track her by smell? Which means they need to finish this off quickly – because the second they realize there's a very edible, injured Terran with a blood-soaked leg nearby, there's not going to be much she can do.

Gamora stalls from throwing the second bomb until the creatures are on her very heels. This time, she has her knife out – and the second they recoil from the flash, she strikes, abandoning form and stabbing directly down into the nearest beast's head. It shrieks as her knife cuts through the thick fur and into its skull with a sickening sound, near-black blood bubbling up around the hilt. She yanks her knife out and it collapses to the ground, writhing.

A furious growl sounds behind her and she ducks just in time to avoid the snapping jaws of another beast – only to stumble directly into the path of another. Her left arm flares in pain as the beast's sharp claws slice into her skin, a pained cry escaping her as she shoves her knife through its eye in retaliation.

The beast drops just as another two attack, forcing her to stumble back as she swipes at them with her knife in panic. There's too many of them, and as much as she hates to admit it, the combination of her injuries and the debilitating cold is taking its toll – there's no way she can fend them all off. But hell if she isn't going to go down trying.

She's just preparing to charge them a final time when Peter's voice cuts through the air.

"Gamora, _down!_"

Without a second's pause she throws herself back, curling up protectively with her arms around her head. She can just see Peter's boots as they crunch through the snow towards her, halting several feet from her head as Peter hollers "Take this, bitches!"

A massive ball of flame erupts in the middle of the beasts, the orange glow flashing across the snow as a wave of heat rushes over them. The creatures shriek in pain as they're caught up in the flames, the blast killing several instantly and setting fire to the others. Unlike the flash bomb, this explosion does the trick – their fur aflame, the remaining beasts turn away, disappearing quickly into the darkness.

It's the first of the many explosions they've encountered today that Gamora's been glad to see.

Peter collapses to his knees in the snow besides her, panting.

"That," he gasps. "Was a close one."

"You're telling me," she moans, letting herself lay boneless in the snow. "What…took you so long?" she asks as she catches her breath.

"Sorry 'bout that," he says, apologetic. "That was one of Rocket's guns – I had to take half the thing apart then deliberately jam it."

"Jam it," she repeats. "That explosion – came from a _jammed gun?_"

"Yup," Peter replies. "Granted, it was a deliberate jamming – it'd never happen accidently," he adds hastily.

"I'd hope not," she says faintly, staring at the still-smoking snow where the blast went off.

Peter laughs then hisses in pain, gripping his leg as he stretches it gingerly.

"Oh no – Peter," Gamora says as she sits up, fingers brushing gently across his leg with concern. The makeshift bandages, already drenched in blood, are staining scarlet with fresh blood, the wound likely jostled far more than even remotely safe with his sprinting.

"It's fine," he says, voice full of bravado. "It's not that bad anymore."

She frowns as her fingers brush his leg, feeling the heat radiating from his skin even through the fabric. With a sinking heart, she reaches to lift the bandages, already knowing what she's going to see.

"Don't" Peter says, laying his hand on hers. He meets her glare with a wry smile. "If it's infected, it's infected. Nothing we can do about it now."

She bites her lip. He's right – all the more reason for them to get to the city the faster. She pushes back the wave of despair she feels as she thinks about just how far they have left to go.

"Besides," Peter's voice interrupts her thoughts, his hand touching her arm. "Don't worry about me – you need to get this covered up."

She stares at her arm, just now registering the deep claw marks cutting through her skin, blood trailing sluggishly down her arm.

Ah. There's the pain.

Peter rips a stretch of fabric off his jacket, wrapping it firmly around her arm. Wincing, she feels a faint ripple of amusement – now they match.

"There," he says, tying the makeshift bandage tightly. "You're good to go!"

"Thanks," she says, flexing her arm. Peter gives her a small smile in return, leaning his forehead against her shoulder. She leans back in return, breathing a minute.

"We need to go," she says softly after a beat.

"Mmph," Peter moans into her shoulder. "I know," he says, raising his head wearily, hand raking through his hair.

Gamora stands, ignoring the stab of pain in her head. Reaching down she grabs Peter's hand, hauling him up besides her. His face turns an alarming shade of white as he stumbles against her, biting his lip.

She squeezes his arm, giving him a second to regain his composure. After a moment's pause he sighs, breath a silver mist in the freezing air.

"You good?" she asks.

"I'm good," he says.

Step by step, they continue forward.

* * *

><p>Walking miles through the snow, in nearly complete darkness with steadily dropping temperatures, without the slightest sign that they're anywhere near the city, is disheartening.<p>

Full-out depressing, actually.

Neither of them voices the growing sense of despair they feel as the air grows steadily colder, their wounds taking their toll. They simply continue forward, struggling through the snow in silence, occasionally punctuated by snatches of conversations they soon grow too tired to finish.

"I'm sorry," Peter says, his voice slurred and weary. The signs of infection are setting in fast, his skin too-pale and too-hot.

"Shut up," Gamora says, pulling him further against her. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"No," Peter says. "For… for earlier. The other day earlier. I should've… I should've listened to you. You were right. You're always right."

"No, Peter –" Gamora bites her lip. "I- it was my fault, as much as yours. I should have been plainer, and I shouldn't have… approached it as I did."

"I shouldn't've put it on you," Peter says, his voice fading. " 'was a total dick about it, too…"

"Not a hundred percent a dick," she says. She is rewarded by a small laugh from Peter.

"Really am sorry though."

"Me too," she says softly. Peter smiles.

"Hey, we made up within a week. The others'll go into shock."

"When they find us?" she asks, amused.

"Or when we find them."

"At this rate, that is a logical question," Gamora mutters.

"T-the real question here," Peter says after a minute, shivering. "Is whether going from infection is worse than going from hypothermia." Gamora's trudging footsteps freeze as Peter rambles on, grip growing weak around her shoulder.

"I mean, they'd both suck, but one's gotta be a'least a little better – which one's the one with hallucinations again? Both?"

"You won't be going from either," Gamora bites out. "You won't be going _at all_."

"Joking," he says, his laugh a pale mockery of his bright, usual one. "Jus' a joke."

Gamora huffs, gripping him closer as they continue to plow on.

"I don't like hallucinations," Peter says softly.

* * *

><p>They have to stop. They shouldn't – they need to be moving, to keep their blood moving and getting to the city as soon as possible.<p>

But they can't keep going at this rate. Peter can't.

And she's so, so tired.

So they stop, taking shelter in one of the hollowed-out ice formations they've come across.

Fifteen minutes. That's it. Fifteen minutes to catch their breath and then they're starting up again.

Peter, practically semi-conscious by now, collapses to the ground almost instantly, curling in on his wounded leg. Gamora, in turn, curls against him, wrapping her arms around him in a vain attempt to provide them both with warmth. While she's better off in the cold than him, her body mods serving their purpose well, she is still susceptible to the freezing temperatures – a fact she quickly realizes as she has to jerk herself awake a while later.

Her pulse quickens as she realizes she has no idea how long she's been asleep – the sky is still dark, but she has no idea how much time they've lost. Peter, looking half-dead where he's slumped against her side – she has no idea how much time _he's_ lost.

She shakes him, lightly at first, then harder as he fails to waken. Stirring, his eyes blink open, and there's a terrifying moment when he looks at her with painfully wide, fever-ridden eyes, his lips just forming the word "mom" before he closes them again, moaning as he curls up against her, muttering expletive-filled sentences about the cold. She can feel the heat raging in his skin, his immune system, pitifully weakened by the cold, warring against the spreading infection.

She grips him closer to her, running a hand through his hair as she fights the closing feeling in her throat, the rising panic. Her own cuts are throbbing, a similar heat building in her arm – she doesn't know how much longer she has before she's in the same state as him.

But it won't matter, because they'll make it before that happens – they'll make it out of this, they have to. And Peter's going to be fine, he'll make it through this, he's too damn stubborn to let something like an infection take him down – and he promised her, he _promised_ her. Peter keeps his promises.

She just hopes his ability to keep this one hasn't already been taken out of his hands.

Shaking the thought away, she shifts, rubbing her leg in a vain attempt to dispel the numbness that's set in.

"We need to go," she whispers, her voice cracked with exhaustion.

"Ngh," Peter moans. "Yeah, jus'… jus' five more minu's."

_No, _she wants to say.

_We need to go now_, she wants to say.

"Five more minutes," she actually says. Only five. Five short, quick minutes more of rest. Five more minutes won't hurt them.

But five minutes are such a short time, she thinks, once the time has passed. And she's so very tired, and Peter – Peter looks awful, there's no way she can ask him to stand after such a short time – they just need a few minutes more, that's all – just a few more minutes.

It's deadly, what she's doing, this is how the cold kills, and she knows that. She simply doesn't remember until it's too late.

Long after five minutes has turned to hours, Gamora wakes again, her eyes impossibly heavy as she blinks them open. Blinking again, she shifts – and is immediately gripped with fear. There is a terrible sort of numbness that has set in to her very bones, practically paralyzing her where she sits. She doesn't feel cold anymore – she doesn't feel anything. Just an incredible weariness.

Jerking herself up painfully, she turns her attention to Peter. Her heart jumps into her throat as she quickly moves her stiff arms to shake him.

"Wake up," she gasps out, slapping weakly at his face with her frozen fingers. "Damnit, Peter, _wake up_!"

His eyes remain closed, the slight breaths slowing from where they gasp out through his blue-tinged lips. His face is white as the snow around them, and if she was not so numb to where she could still process temperature, she is sure his skin would be icy to the touch.

He's dying. He may as well be dead. They've rested too long, _she's_ rested too long, and now he is literally slipping away in front of her and she can do _nothing_.

She collapses on his chest with a sob, her own exhaustion overwhelming her. Her skin is both numb and aching at the same time, and her head feels as if it's splitting in two, her vision blurring.

She's so, so tired.

"I'm sorry, Peter," she whispers, fingers tightening into Peter's jacket as she hugs his limp form, giving him what nonexistent warmth she has left. "I'm so, so sorry."

Her breath hitches and she buries her face in his chest. She's failed him. She's failed them both. They're going to die here, away from their friends – Groot and Rocket and Drax, she's failing them too. She's failing them all and it _hurts_.

She makes one last, desperate attempt to rise, but the cold has done its work – she is no more capable of moving from here than she is of moving the planets.

"I'm sorry," she whispers again to him. "I'm sorry."

Everything becomes a blur as she fades from consciousness, the world fading in and out as she can feel her own heart slowing. Somewhere between the white blurring there is a commotion, several figures in shades of red and brown and blue and concerned voices echoing faintly. She dreams she feels hands picking her up, grabbing Peter from her as they lift her towards the blinding lights of a ship – then darkness claims her.

* * *

><p>"…should be…within a few days…"<p>

"….not _that_ bad….totally fine, just overreacting."

"-just fine my _ass_, you damn _moron_-"

"_SHHH!_"

Gamora shifts, consciousness filtering in as the voices become clearer. The first thing she notices is that she's warm. Warm and devoid of pain, which, judging by the odd floating feeling she has, means she's on drugs. If she's not dead?

Blinking her eyes open, she winces as the bright light sends a stabbing pain through her head. As her eyes adjust, she registers the immaculate white of the walls, the low hum of medical equipment around her, and the heavy weight of the blankets layered on her.

"Wha-" she croaks out, coughing, her throat painfully dry.

"Gamora!" There's a commotion from besides her, and she just has time to notice another hospital bed across the room before she is swarmed by three very concerned, very enthusiastic Guardians, all apparently fully healed from their own injuries.

She's never been so happy to see anyone in her life.

"You are awake!" Drax says, a wide grin on his face as he crowds her bedside.

"About frickin' time, too," Rocket mutters from where he hovers next to Drax, his tone gruff but speaking volumes of relief.

"I am Groot!" Her third friend's words are filled with the same warmth as the others, and Gamora finds herself smiling widely.

A smile that slips off in a heartbeat as she realizes the obvious.

"Peter," she gasps, sitting up quickly. Eyes watering at the sudden pain in her head, she looks at the others desperately. "Where – did you – is he –"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down!" Rocket yelps as Drax grips her shoulders, pushing her back down firmly. "He's right over –"

"I'm here."

Gamora has never been so glad to hear Peter's voice, strong and alive as he limps over, grinning at her as he leans heavily on the side of her bed.

"_What the hell are you doing up?_" Rocket shrieks, whipping around to growl at Peter. Peter's eyes go wide as he scoots down the bed, away from Rocket.

"Uhhhhh…."

"I am Groot!"

"Our friends are right," Drax says, glaring at Peter. "You have a hole in your leg. You are proving yourself incredibly stupid by removing yourself from your bed when you've been told not to."

"Technically, there's not a hole _anymore_," Peter mutters, looking down.

"Oh, 'not a hole anymore', that automatically cures hypothermia and blood loss and the horde of other problems you and your stupid humie system manage to rack up-"

"Guys," Gamora cuts in, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she watches her friends. "Peter and his foolishness concerning his health aside-"

"Hey!"

"-would you mind, um," Gamora continues, a shade hesitant. "Giving us a minute?"

"Of course!" Drax says, grabbing Groot and a sputtering Rocket by the arms as he drags them from the room. "We will return after you have had time to converse."

"But-"

"_Adequate _time which you _need," _Drax near-hisses as he drags Rocket from the room. Rocket looks irritated, but his face softens a bit as he leaves the room with Drax.

"Pull anything stupid and I'll blast you both," he mutters as they leave the room. Gamora laughs softly as Peter snorts, edging up the bed, nearer to her.

"So," he says after a breath.

"So," she replies.

"We made it?" he says, hesitantly.

"Obviously," she says. She turns her attention to the white coverlet, fingers clenching on the fabric. "Barely, though. No thanks to me."

"No thanks to – what do you mean?" Peter says, voice incredulous. "You're the only reason we're both alive! You got us through all that even while hauling my useless ass," he mutters, looking down at his heavily bandaged leg.

"That wasn't-" she grits her teeth. "That wasn't your fault. I – Peter, I would have let us freeze to death just _sitting_ there." She clenches her fists tighter, growing angry at the memory of her weakness. Injured or not, there was no excuse for her failure.

"Gamora," Peter says weakly. "That's not – we were walking for hours. _Hours _through fricking _freezing _weather, injured and with fricking demon wolves chasing us – which you took care of, by the way – do you even realize how messed-up that was?" he says, voice growing angry. "I mean – it was dumb. It was a stupid, stupid call that I made, and I-" he swallows. "I asked you to trust me and I almost got us killed."

Peter hangs his head, staring at the ground as Gamora sits in silence from a minute.

"Peter," she finally says. "That's not – fair," she continues, twisting the coverlet in her hands. "You were the one who pulled off the trick with the gun. You pushed yourself far further than I had any right to ask of you – than you ever should have. And you pulled through – kept your promise."

"And besides," she says, softly. "If I hadn't been half as much a child as I was earlier, we wouldn't have been off our game because we were too busy acting awful towards each other." She hangs her own head. "We could have avoided this altogether if we'd simply worked it out before hand – if I'd been trusting you from the start."

"Well that's on both of us, then, because I certainly wasn't any help there either," Peter mutters. He sighs heavily, finally turning to her.

"I really am sorry?" he says, expression slightly tentative.

"I really am sorry, as well," she replies. Peter grins.

"Truce?" he says, as he holds out his hand to her. "No more pissed-off silent treatment fights over stupid stuff?"

"You _have_ to put it that way, but yes," Gamora says, smiling as she grabs his hand. "Truce."

"Great!" Peter says, looking far happier. "Now we can talk about that priceless expression of that mercenary's face when you shot him."

"You mean the priceless expression on _your_ face?"

"Aw, stars, don't remind me," Peter moans, burying his face in the coverlet. "Man, Skrulls are so _wrong_."

Gamora laughs, patting his arm lightly.

"If it's any comfort, you made a very nice corpse."

"Wha – why would you even _say_ that?!" Peter cries as Gamora laughs again, leaning back in the pillows.

The others do eventually make good on their promise – but by the time the three Guardians return to the room, they find their remaining two friends curled up in Gamora's bed, dead to the world as they sleep with Peter's walkman between them, the low music playing softly through the room.

Groot makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like an "aw".

"Frickin' dorks," Rocket mutters. "I'm bailing – this is way too sappy for me."

"Let us leave them to rest," Drax says, smiling lightly as he follows the others out of the room.

He does, though, take the time to take a picture before he leaves the room. Just in case.

Maybe he's hoping Peter's "take a picture, it'll last longer" is a real thing – but even if it isn't, it doesn't hurt to have decent blackmail.


End file.
